


Rules of the Game

by MagicandMess (magicandmess)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-22 14:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12483848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicandmess/pseuds/MagicandMess
Summary: Following the death of their beloved Prime Minister, Britain dissolves into chaos but as Ned Stark steps up as temporary Prime Minister, his family find themselves thrown into the spotlight, watched by the world and held to impossible standards by their once adoring public.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, another new piece when I have a few unfinished already. But I have time for now and will be working on a bit of everything for the next few weeks and I promise, nothing will go unfinished in the long run. Anyway! This is my brain-baby, which has gnawed at me for three years and, well, here we are. I hope you enjoy and, as always, please leave feedback!

In his new, well-tailored suit and his freshly clipped beard, Robert Baratheon looked every bit the newly-elected Prime Minister. Waving at his new public, he beamed at the flashing cameras of the paparazzi, one hand cupping the shoulder of his youngest son. It had been a long and arduous campaign with more hurdles than he would have thought possible but finally – finally! – he was here. Bidding the public a fond farewell, Robert turned, placing a hand on the handle of Britain's most famous door and turned, allowing his family entry to their new home.

"Dad didn't say much," Arya complained, her Doc Marten boots leaving scuffs on the arm of her brother's wheelchair. "It's a coalition so why is it all about Uncle Robert?" It had been an ongoing battle since the votes had been tallied and the results announced: Why hadn't Eddard stark been made Prime Minister Instead? Her brother Bran, though two years younger, had tried to explain the process, using big words and fancy political jargon he had picked up from all the time he spent around their father, but the fact remained that their father had been the preferred candidate. He had ranked higher than Robert Baratheon in all of the opinion polls, yet when the coalition was proposed, it was Eddard who would be returning to Scotland and the weekends, and Robert's wife and children who would move into number 10 Downing Street.

Bran, exasperated and bored, rolled his eyes, nudging Arya's foot from his chair. "Because Robert's party had a larger majority and – "

"But dad would be a better Prime Minister!" Arya snapped, as she always did, ending the conversation. There was, as Bran told himself, no telling some people. "He looks thin, though. And tired." Their mother, poised at the edge of the sofa, pursed her lips. She had said as much herself the previous evening during a Skype call to her husband. His hair was showing signs of premature grey, while the dark shadows under his eyes shone with tell-tale signs of late nights lost to meetings and paperwork. Realising she had sat in silence just a fraction too long, Catelyn Stark straightened up a little, dragging her eyes from the television where Sky News was already showing a repeat of Robert Baratheon's speech.

"Your father has been working very hard, Arya. It's been a tough few weeks," she replied, diplomatic as ever. Her eyes cast back towards the screen, where Robert's wife Cersei beamed back at her.

"And Uncle Robert has been sitting around, scratching his fat arse as usual," Arya scoffed, narrowly dodging the tea towel her mother flicked at her as she admonished her.

The Starks had always been a respectable family, one who the British public had always looked on favourably. Head of the family, Eddard Stark (or Ned, as the press had affectionately called him during the campaign), had always been a man of the public – a breath of fresh air amongst the policies and scandals tearing their way through the world of politics. 'A man of honour' as dubbed by the press, the media had nothing but good things to say about the Scottish politician who had raised his sister's orphan son as his own, all the while raising awareness (and millions of pounds) for Cystic Fibrosis, the disease which had affected his middle son Brandon. The family were a regular bunch of angels, if you were to believe the media, yet looking at the screen, where Cersei Baratheon and her three golden-haired children smiled serenely behind their father, Catelyn couldn't help but think her own family would have cut a more interesting shape. Cersei never had to wrestle her youngest daughter out of dungarees or deal with a ten-year old's tantrum three minutes before his father's biggest press event. She never had to pretend to care about her husband's nephew, who hung around the family, years after they had any legal responsibility to him, or hide the fact that her oldest son's best friend was constantly threatening to drag the family into disrepute. Pushing herself to her feet and heading back to the kitchen, Catelyn was glad her husband hadn't been named as Prime Minister: her family definitely weren't ready for that sort of exposure, something which was proved by the explosive noises coming from her youngest son's bedroom and the loud rock song blaring from Arya's phone as someone tried to contact her.

No, they definitely weren't ready.

* * *

As the door of 10 Downing Street closed behind the Baratheon family, shielding them from the view of cameras, Cersei Baratheon's smile left her face. Her cheeks ached from so much falseness and she let out a quiet sigh as her youngest children rushed off to fight over bedrooms, her eldest, Joff, already halfway upstairs. "What the bloody hell was that all about?" she asked, heading straight for the drinks cabinet which adorned one wall of the dining room. She had seen it during countless trips to the house as a young woman accompanying her father on political meetings and had hoped that they would have left it well stocked when they cleared the house of the previous owner's belongings. "The way you spoke out there you would have thought Eddard Stark won the campaign for you." Luck found her in the shape of a glass decanter of whisky – it wasn't her choice of alcohol but she would take what she could get at that moment, and it had been a long day – and she removed the stopper, pouring herself a large measure. "I'll remind you that my father personally gave – "

"I know fine well what your father gave for my campaign woman, and don't think I'll forget it any time soon," Robert blustered, shocked that his wife would speak to him in such a manner. She had always been a wilful woman, but today of all days… "But that man had the power to refuse this coalition, to claim the victory for himself. But here we are because _he_ allowed it."

"Well next time try not to act like such a pathetic –" Robert's hand struck out without warning, silencing his wife as it connected with her cheek.

"I'll have no more of this!" he hissed, careful to keep his voice at a decent level. They may have been out of the paparazzi's line of sight but there was no doubting what they could and couldn't hear. Taking the glass from Cersei's hand, he drained the liquid in two clean gulps, before returning it to the cabinet and heading for the stairs. "Now get changed – we have important business to attend to and you can't be seen looking like that."

Upstairs, laying languidly across a bed in one of the larger bedrooms in his new home, Joffrey Baratheon glanced at the messages on his phone. Many of them came from his friends, noting that they had seen him on television and making crude jokes about his mother and father as young men often did. He had assumed Sansa would have messaged by now – she would have been watching to see that simpleton she called a father, after all – yet her name didn't show once. _Stupid bitch,_ he thought, his lip curling in disgust as he scrolled through the female names in his phonebook. He could have any of them, he knew, now that he was the son of the Prime Minister. He didn't need to keep Sansa around… And yet he knew he couldn't dismiss her or end things on bad terms; it would look dreadful for the son of the Prime Minister to end his relationship with the Deputy Prime Minister's daughter just hours after his father had moved into his role… No, he would just need to deal with her for now. And it wasn't like she was hard on the eyes, he smirked, closing down the phonebook application. He had plenty of photos on his phone that could prove that, photos that would make Ned Stark furious.

Thoughts of his photos – and memories – of his girlfriend, however, were soon forgotten as his father's heavy footsteps drew nearer, the man clambering up the stairs. _Fat bastard will be out of breath by the time he reaches the top,_ Joffrey thought, though he called out to the man, hoping to borrow a car for the evening. "Not now, Joff. I'm busy!" Robert responded, without paying much attention to his words. He was always busy, these days. Busy or drunk.

* * *

_Three months later…_

Six solemn faces sat around the television, as Sansa Stark turned up the volume. They knew what was about to be announced – their father had been called immediately to inform him – but that didn't make it any easier to hear. Still dressed in their finery from the night before, her brother Robb and his best friend Theon stood either side of Bran, who watched the screen through thick glasses. There was no precedent for this, he'd told them once their father had left the room. In America they had contingency plans, but not here. Not in Britain. It was one of the many flaws in the British government, according to the fifteen-year-old, who was about to launch into a list of such flaws, when Theon had placed a hand on his shoulder and muttered, "Not right now, mate."

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself, hoping to give more warmth than the thin dress she wore. It had been perfect, a bright red to match Joffrey's tie, covered in delicate beading and intricate detailing, with a new pair of Louboutin heels to match. Normally, her mother would never have allowed her to wear such expensive dresses and jewellery, but last night had been special – it had been her first event with Joff. She wasn't appearing at the Climate Change gala as Ned Stark's eldest daughter, but as the girlfriend of Joffrey Baratheon, heir to Casterly Rock Bank and son of the Prime Minister. Ex-Prime Minister, she thought darkly as the strained face of the news presenter illuminated the screen.

"It is with great sadness that we announce tonight, that Prime Minister Robert Baratheon has died after receiving a gun-shot wound at last night's Climate Change Gala. Our Royal correspondent Peter Baelish is at the scene…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:Thanks to everyone who read or reviewed the first chapter! I've had a very busy week but hopefully I can get chapter three written by the weekend. I hope to be pretty steady with updating, so fingers crossed. Thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoy! Please leave any feedback :)

 

* * *

"And when exactly do you plan on making this public reappearance?" Jaime Lannister asked, his body stretched languidly across the sofa. For half an hour he had watched his sister nibble at the pitiful foods she had called dinner, all the while draining glass after glass of wine. It had been three weeks since Robert Baratheon's funeral and, though the paparazzi had tried, Cersei had managed to stay out of the public eye. Returning to her father's home in Cheshire with her two youngest children, she had bolted the door behind her and refused to speak to anyone but her twin brother and her father.

"Father says I should wait until Stark has settled," she replied, her words slightly slurred. "Show I mean him no ill will. It wouldn't look good otherwise." The decision to give Ned Stark the position of Prime Minister had not been one Cersei had agreed with, something she had voiced to her father on multiple occasions, and with no clear constitutional ruling as to who would take over the government, she had suggested that, perhaps, she could take over and rule in her husband's stead. The idea had not gone down as well as she'd hoped, however, and now the Deputy Prime Minister was the Interim Prime Minister, much to her chagrin. "He isn't moving into the house, did you know?"

"He can't. Tyrion says –" but his explanation of what their younger brother had told him was cut off by a loud, scathing noise from the back of Cersei's throat.

"What does that little bastard know about it?" As she filled up another glass, Jaime found himself staring at his twin. Eyes wild and glassy, cheeks flushed, she'd never looked further from a grieving politician's wife. Clearing her throat, she continued, "Like I was saying, as he's only Interim Prime Minister, he has no rights to the house. God only knows what happens once they've picked a final replacement. No doubt we'll return to the old house – it would probably be good for the children."

Already, Jaime was starting to lose interest. He had never had much time for Robert Baratheon; the man was a foul creature, brash and loud and entirely unsuited to the task of Prime Minister but he had kept everyone's eyes on Cersei and left Jaime to do as he pleased, something he had enjoyed those past few months. "So, that's the plan you and father have come up with? Wait until Ned Stark takes his seat as Prime Minister and then throw you into the public eye as the grieving widow, lending her support to her father's own political party?"

"How do you know about that?" The talks of Tywin Lannister running as an independent party had been particularly hush-hush, with only Cersei and her uncle Kevan sitting in during conversations. Or so she'd thought. "Nothing has been finalised, actually. But, yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it. Just don't fuck this up for us, okay? He's already got Tyrion on a tight leash after that last scandal…"

And with that, Jaime was done. Rolling his eyes, he pushed to his feet, fingers wrapping around Cersei's wine glass and plucking it from her hand with ease. "Tidy yourself up, Myrcella and Tommen will be home from school soon and I won't have them seeing you like this," he said, turning his back on her and limping from the room.

"And where do you think you're going?" she called after him, the sounds of her unsteadily standing up following him into the hallway.

"Tarth's!" He replied, dropping the wine glass off in the kitchen before leaving the house, glad to be away from his sister and her ridiculous, drunken notions once more.

* * *

"So, dad's Prime Minister, but we still stay up here?" Arya asked for the umpteenth time, causing most of the dinner table to roll their eyes. "Not that I want to live in Downing Street – that's stupid – but think of how cool it would be to live in London. All the cool gig venues and all the cool clubs – they don't have any of that up here! It's not fair!" Since their father's appointment as Interim Prime Minister, the Stark children had seen little of their parents, with their Aunt Lysa travelling all the way from the Highlands to take care of them, despite the fact that most of them were of an age to look after themselves. It wasn't the worst scenario; with Lysa came her son Robin, a poor, sickly child who needed a lot of attention which meant, besides meal times, they rarely had to spend time with her and, for the most part, were left to themselves. If anything, it was even better than having their parents home. If you asked Arya, that was.

"Fair? How can you think about _fair_?" Sansa hissed, eyeing her sister with disgust. "Joffrey's father has been _murdered_ and you're talking about fair?"

"I know, we went to his funeral, stupid. I'm just saying we can't be sad forever and if mum and dad are already down there I don't see why we can't go too," Arya argued, watching as her aunt ladled out something which looked suspiciously like soup, though no one could quite tell with Lysa's cooking. "Joff and Myrcella and Tommen all got to stay there, why can't we?"

"Your father is only the interim Prime Minister, Arya," Lysa clucked, handing the first bowl to her own son. "He won't be down there for long, let me tell you. Soon enough, they'll realise he's terribly ill-suited to the job and send him packing back up here." Fussing with her son's hair, she turned to the faces of the four youngest Stark children. "Good people never last in Downing Street. That's what killed my Jon, you know? Being down there, surrounded by those…those _vipers_. It killed him." Turning back to the large pot of soup – or was it stew? Arya was still struggling to work it out, even as Robin slurped down his first few spoonfuls – Lysa gave a dramatic sniff. It had been like this almost every night since she came – she would give them some food, make a comment about her late husband and then rush off dramatically, taking Robin with her.

"I think dad would be a great Prime Minister," Bran piped up, dragging his eyes from the handheld computer game which had held his attentions all evening. "He's fair and he's just and he doesn't pretend to be something he's not." Chewing on the inside of his lip, he paused. "Uncle Robert –" Sansa tried to interrupt, telling him to stop using the term 'Uncle' when the man wasn't related to them, but Bran spoke over her. "Uncle Robert was always trying to pretend he was posh when he was in front of the cameras and trying to pretend he was sober when he was around us."

It was one of the many things the family had agreed to keep quiet; many people knew Robert liked a drink but no one wanted to go tattling about the Prime Minister and ruining his reputation. Especially not after the last one…

"He'll be home soon. You listen to me, now. This is the last I'll hear of it – none of you will be going down to London," Lysa replied, placing bowls in front of the other children. "It's not safe down there for good people like us."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment, review or even read this story! Your time means a lot to me, so, again, thanks! I'm sorry it's taken a little longer to get this chapter out but between university and work, I've been restricted in writing time. Hopefully this week will be the start of regular updates, though, and we'll get to see what happens down in London! Please, enjoy, and leave any feedback you have!

 

* * *

"Arya?" Sansa whispered, her voice hoarse as she slipped in the back door, the blueish glare from her phone lighting barely a foot in front of her. "Arya, are you awake?" It was a stupid question – Arya had text her not five minutes ago, telling her to come in the back door – but she had to get her younger sister's attention somehow. There was a mild slur to her voice and the lipstick she'd applied impeccably earlier in the evening was ever so slightly smudged on one side. After tip-toeing through the kitchen, desperate not to wake Bran's new live-in nurse, Osha, Sansa made it to the living room where her sister was, much to her delight, wide awake. Propped up in the large armchair their father used to favour, Arya's face was aglow with light from the television, which she stared at without truly seeing, shovelling Pringles into her mouth and barely leaving enough time between mouthfuls to breathe. "Arya, guess what?!"

"You're drunk," Arya responded, looking across from the screen. Though her tone was reproachful, the small smile on her lips told Sansa that this was just another secret between them, one of the many they seemed to harbour since Ned had gone down south.

"Joffrey text me tonight," Sansa continued, not waiting for her sister to guess. It had days since she heard from her boyfriend, though Arya had seen the articles written about him; the pictures posted online of him with pretty singers and models in swish London nightclubs. "His phone broke, but it's fixed now." It was all Arya could do not to roll her eyes. Having never been a fan of Joffrey, it was difficult for her to see what Sansa saw in the boy – he was pompous, arrogant, rude and, most of all, he always smelled like he'd bathed in too much cologne, which led to Arya coughing whenever she was around him. Something which hadn't gone down so well at his father's funeral. "I'm going to go down to London to see him at the weekend."

"Does mum and dad know?" Only Rickon, youngest of the Stark children, had been allowed to go down to London with his parents – at first, he had been left with his siblings, but he had grown unruly and after an incident which involved hair removal cream and his cousin Robin's head, it had been decided that he would go South too, to be with his parents. Besides Rickon, none of the children had been permitted to go to England since returning from Robert Baratheon's funeral. Not even Robb.

"I've…Not had a chance to tell them."

"And you don't plan to," shovelling another handful of Pringles into her mouth, Arya turned back to the television. "They'll find out. Do you really think the Prime Minister's daughter can fly into the city he lives in without him finding out?"

"Interim Prime Minister," Sansa corrected her, Joffrey's words leaving her mouth. "And it doesn't matter. I'll phone them when I get there. Arya, I _need_ to go to London – this might be the last chance to get things back on track with Joffrey. You saw how it was after his dad's funeral…" The pleading look in her eyes almost made Arya pity her when she glanced across – how could she not see that he was stringing her along? Arya wondered. Yet she said nothing, staring straight ahead at whatever commercial had just begun on the screen. "Look, I know you're jealous but can't you just be happy for me?"

"Jealous?" Putting down the Pringles, Arya turned to look at her sister, truly taking in her appearance. The short black dress she wore was slightly rumpled from the taxi ride home, her cheeks flushed and her hair ever so slightly mussed in a way which, on Arya, would have looked untidy. "Go to bed, Sansa. Get yourself a glass of water and go to bed, you've got that stupid uni thing tomorrow."

"Oh, that's the thing," Sansa giggled, her voice high as she unsteadily removed her shoes, hopping from one foot to another with less grace than Arya had ever seen. "I have to be at Glasgow Airport for six and I know Robb is working so he can't drive me…"

"No. Absolutely not."

"You don't have to come – I just need you to ask him, please? I can't drive myself – I've been drinking," her petted lip was testimony to this, as was the slurring of her words.

"Get a taxi."

"Arya please – I never ask you for anything!" Despite being nineteen, Sansa was still very much treated like a princess, someone who's every wish and whim seemed to come true and, as a result, she rarely had to ask her siblings for anything, other than silence. "It's just one lift to the airport."

"He's busy."

"You don't know that!" Throwing her mobile phone at her younger sister, Sansa stomped her foot, groaning when the phone bounced off Arya's arm with barely any offence.

"I'm not asking Gendry to get up hours before his shift just so you can go and shag a guy who's cheating on you," Arya replied, tossing her sister's phone back to her, where it landed on the wooden floor with a loud _thunk_. "Now go to bed."

"You're such a selfish little bitch Arya. You just sit about, acting like you're so different and alternative. But you're not. You're just stupid," Sansa hissed, bending to pick up her phone. "I hope Gendry realises what a little cow you really are, leading him on like that. You're just – ugh!" And with a flounce and a whip of her long red hair, Sansa was gone, any care for waking Osha long gone as she stomped up the stairs, leaving Arya to return to her television show.

_And she says I'm the selfish one…_

* * *

They had taken a while to get used to, these graveyard shifts, but slowly, Jon had embraced them and as he changed out of his uniform and into something that wouldn't have Ygritte making retching noises when she saw him, he didn't quite feel like a graveyard was a suitable place to put himself. Zipping up his jacket, Jon threw his duffel bag over one shoulder and grabbed for his phone, laughing at the abundance of messages his friend Sam had sent him during his own shift in Paddington Green Station. If Jon thought his own shift – which had involved the arrest of a whopping two drunken idiots for breach of the peace – had been boring, it was nothing compared to Sam's, where he had spent the evening maintaining criminal databases and complaining about the spelling ability of some of the police officers. Sending back a quick text to his friend, Jon headed for the exit, nodding and making small talk with the officers and staff who had taken over for the day shift.

It was the usual, really, besides Sam's tirade. Every morning when he finished his shift, he would look at his phone to see messages from Ygritte, complaining about upstairs' cat or telling him about some show she had watched without him, followed by a Snapchat or two from his cousin Robb, who was almost always out doing something 'cool' or 'out there' with his best mate, Theon and, if he was lucky enough to be remembered, there was sometimes a message from his Uncle Eddard who, despite how busy he was, often liked to check in with Jon, who he had raised almost as his own. The times of his uncle's messages had begun to concern Jon, who could no longer tell if the man was an early riser, a late worker or if he simply never slept.

Yet as he skimmed through the 'usual', he paused, frowning as he saw another message amongst it. He and Arya had always been close – in fact, they Skyped at least once a week, even now, and Ygritte had even offered to have her stay once school let out. But messaging at four am… Jon's lips pulled into a tight frown as he headed out into the early morning chill and made his way towards Ygritte's place of work. He should reply, he knew, but he wasn't sure what to say – it wasn't like he could do anything to stop it, now. It was too late – and Arya was sure to be asleep now, anyway. Instead, he continued towards The Wall, the small, almost run-down café where Ygritte worked, the jingling bell above the door as he entered all too familiar.

"That you, Jon?" called Harma, the old woman who owned the café, giving him a toothless smile over the counter once she saw him. "Ygritte'll be back in a minute – she's just nipped out to get some more bacon." Nodding, he took a seat, reading over the message once more, not that he would get much out of it. Arya had always been like him – there was no point in saying fifty words when it could be said in five – and she had given him all the details necessary.

Sansa would be in the air, by now, and the flight was little over an hour – he could be at the airport, waiting for her when she arrived, and send her right back up to Scotland. It was the smart thing to do, that much was obvious. But Jon had rarely chosen the smart option. The tinkling of the bell and the soft scuff of worn trainers on the vinyl flooring alerted him to Ygritte's return, yet Jon continued to stare at the phone, only looking up when Ygritte's cold fingers pressed to the back of his neck, making him jump. "What's up with you, then?" She asked, handing over the bacon before shrugging out of her jacket. "Long shift?"

"Same as every other night," he replied, rubbing at the back of his neck, massaging the spot where Ygritte's fingers had been just seconds before. Sucking on the inside of his lip, Jon took a few seconds before sighing. "Sansa's coming to London."

"Why? I thought your Uncle told them to stay up North?" Tying the strings of her apron, Ygritte frowned. "Does she need a place to stay? It'll be tight, but I said before… We can make the room. If she doesn't mind sleeping on the couch, that is."

"She's coming down to see Joffrey Baratheon," Jon had originally been working on the Baratheon case – still was, technically – but with few leads and more experienced men working night and day on what little they had, he had been left with the dregs and the smaller cases to work on. But he knew how much security the Baratheon boy had on him at any given moment and the amount of nonsense he had been getting up to since his father had been murdered. Sansa didn't need to see that. And, most importantly, Ned didn't need to see Sansa seeing that.

"God, he's a smarmy little cunt, isn't he?" Harma asked rhetorically, handing over Jon's usual milky tea and full English. "And his uncle's no better."

"Stannis?" Jon asked, turning his attentions to the food before him. "I wouldn't say Stannis is smarmy. More…stoic."

"No, the other one. The fancy boy. Renly," Harma replied, nodding to the front page of the morning's newspaper, where Renly Baratheon's face was printed beside his brother Stannis', under a headline of 'Baratheon vs Baratheon'. "Running independently, he is."

"Is there anyone who isn't throwing their hat in the ring?" sipping on the tea, he shook his head. Just this week it had been announced that Stannis, Robert Baratheon's eldest brother had declared that not enough was being done about Robert's death and, as he believed the murderer to have been a Faceless Man from the east, was calling for the closure of the borders, a tightening on immigration and the wholehearted support from the British public as he planned to challenge Eddard Stark's position as Interim Prime Minister.

 _Brilliant,_ Jon thought, taking a small bite of a sausage. _Just what Uncle Ned needs._


End file.
